
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

No title available

JVL

Janaina Medeiros

No title available

blake kathryn
Show & Tell
art blog(derogatory)
YOU ARE THE REASON
One Nice Bug Per Day
Game of Thrones Daily
tumblr dot com
No title available
almost home
sheepfilms
Claire Keane

roma★

Kaledo Art
No title available
Sweet Seals For You, Always

seen from Germany
seen from Germany

seen from France

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Kuwait
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Türkiye
seen from South Korea

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Azerbaijan
seen from Kuwait

seen from United States

seen from France

seen from France
seen from Kuwait
seen from Belarus
@venger1
“The Last Hustle”
Featuring American Actor, Aldo Ray
CHAPTER ONE: The Reluctant Take
Aldo Ray stood under the cheap klieg lights of a San Fernando Valley soundstage that smelled of stale smoke, sweat, and Pine Sol. Fifty eight years old, broad rugged face flushed ruddy under the makeup they had slapped on to hide the broken capillaries, piercing blue eyes narrowed against the glare. Graying dark hair combed straight back, full lips clamped around a half chewed cigar. Six feet of once bull necked Navy frogman bulk gone soft with years of booze, bad luck, and three divorces that had picked his pockets clean. Heavy dense chest hair curled out the open collar of his cheap suit shirt; the same thick mat matted his powerful arms and trailed down to the dense gray flecked bush framing his uncut cock. He needed the thousand cash in his pocket by nightfall. Child support for Claire, Paul, and Eric did not wait, and the residuals from his Columbia contract days had dried up years ago.
The director, some fast talking kid who kept calling him Mister Ray like it still meant something, pointed at the couch. Just like we rehearsed. You walk up, cigar in mouth, give the kid the business. Camera loves that hairy chest and that foghorn voice of yours.
Aldo grunted, the sound low and raspy as gravel in a cement mixer. Yeah, well, I done worse for less. Lets get it over with before I change my goddamn mind.
The young man, slim, dark haired, twenty five, already on his knees in nothing but a jock, looked up with eager eyes. Aldo stepped forward, thick thighs straining the fabric of his trousers. He unbuckled slowly, the metal clink loud in the quiet set. Thick fingers fished out his heavy, uncut seven point five inch cock. The veiny shaft hung low, foreskin half covering the large flared head, heavy balls swinging in their loose sac beneath the dense bush. He slapped the warm meat across the kids cheek once, twice, the wet smack echoing.
Suck it, boy, Aldo rasped, voice pure foghorn gravel. Make it worth the plane ticket.
The young man opened wide. Full lips stretched around the thick girth as he took the head, tongue swirling under the foreskin, tasting the musky salt of an older man who had been drinking since breakfast. Aldo grabbed the back of the kids neck, not rough but firm, the way a constable used to handle a drunk. He pushed deeper, hips rolling lazy at first, then picking up rhythm. The young man gagged softly, spit drooling down his chin and onto those low hanging balls. Aldo pulled out, slapped the glistening cock across the flushed face three times, left, right, left, then fed it back in, fucking the eager mouth with short, deliberate strokes.
Attaboy, he growled, cigar still clamped between his teeth. Take every fat inch. Christ, you kids today no shame at all. He glanced over his shoulder at the director and cameraman gesturing for more. Aldo shrugged out of his suit jacket, let it drop, then unbuckled fully so his pants sagged to mid thigh. His firm but sagging ass, dusted with dark hair, flexed under the shirt tails as he kept the kids head bobbing.
Memories flickered, those long ago Henry Willson pool parties, where beefy screen hunks learned quick that a little cock sucking could keep the contracts coming. Aldo had watched, stayed mostly clear, but the lesson stuck. Now here he was, living it for cash.
Enough, he muttered. He hauled the young man up, spun him, and shoved him face down on the couch. The kids pants were already around his thighs. Aldo straddled him, spit thickly into his palm, and slicked his throbbing cock. The large flared head nudged the tight pink hole. Easy now just like the Navy taught me, slow and steady till she opens.
He pushed. The young man groaned. Aldo grunted as the head popped past the ring, hot and velvet tight. Fucking hot, he rasped out, voice cracking like an old record. He fed another thick inch, then another, until his dense bush ground against smooth ass cheeks and his heavy balls nestled against the kids taint. The young man was panting, pushing back, hole clenching greedily around the veiny invasion.
Aldo started slow, hips rolling, pulling out until only the fat head stretched the rim, then slamming back in balls deep. The wet slap of hairy groin on smooth flesh filled the room. He picked up speed, thick powerful limbs driving hard, sagging ass flexing with every thrust. Sweat rolled down his weathered neck, matting the chest hair that rubbed against the kids back.
Oh me! Oh! Oh! the young man cried.
Quit your complaining, Aldo growled, foghorn voice laced with that old resilient chuckle. You like getting fucked, do not ya? Feel that big Italian American cock stretchin you wide? Yeah, you do.
The young man moaned louder, pushing his ass back to meet every brutal thrust. Aldo leaned down, hot beer and cigar breath on the kids neck, full lips brushing skin. The young man twisted, trying to steal a kiss. Aldo jerked his head back.
Damn, boy, take my pecker! Take it all! He rammed deep and held, grinding, letting the kid feel every pulsing inch. You like it, boy? You like my fat dick up your ass?
Yes, fuck yes!
Yeah you do! Aldo barked, and started pounding again, hard, fast, hips smacking loud: SMACK SMACK SMACK. The young mans hole was sloppy now, stretched wide, taking the veiny cock like it was made for it. Aldo grabbed the kids shoulder, yanking him back onto every thrust, bull neck corded with effort.
Get ready for it, he warned, voice raw.
He pulled out suddenly, cock glistening, and stroked fast with one meaty fist. A guttural roar tore from his chest. Oh yeah, Im gonna cum, UGH! and thick ropes of hot cum blasted across the young mans back, splattering his spine, shoulders, and chest. One powerful spurt caught the kids open mouth, salty and bitter. The young man shuddered, eyes closed, rubbing the load into his skin while his own hand flew on his cock.
Aldo, still breathing hard, shoved the spent cock back between those cum slick lips. Clean it up, boy. Every drop. The young man sucked greedily, tongue swirling under the foreskin, milking the last beads. Aldo finally pulled free, cock softening, and rolled off. He sat on the edge of the couch, pants still tangled at his thighs, shirt soaked with sweat. He brushed a hand across his eyes, the same hand that had once held a rifle in the Pacific and later signed autographs for fans who still remembered the hairy chested tough guy.
Jesus H. Christ, he muttered, gravelly voice tired but carrying that old blunt humor. Played a lotta parts in my day. This one this one takes the cake. He looked at the young man, then at the director. We done? I got a plane to catch and alimony to dodge.
The lights stayed hot. The camera kept rolling. And for one more day, Aldo Ray had made his buck.
Disclaimer: This narrative is entirely fictional, satirical, and erotic fantasy. It does not reflect any verified events, actions, or inclinations of American actor, Aldo Ray or any person named Aldo Ray. It is invented for entertainment purposes only.
the train reaches the station
A couple of years ago before he started wearing a scarf to hide his spuds.
😱🍆😈
the train reaches the station
Frank Itt.
First of a two-part post. Stills from Gilligan’s Island, which I watched some months ago (every last episode and the three made-for-TV movies that followed, a proud achievement for me). The Skipper’s bulge is ever present and so I thought that with careful attention I might in time see the clear outline of a penis head, to find just one moment somewhere, but alas, no such luck.
The stills here then are just the most glaring or unusual crotch moments I found. In one still, for example, you see the bulge is down the right leg when every other time it goes to the left. You also see another still where it looks like his fly is partially undone.
For those interested in Alan Hale Jr, this is much more compelling, what looks like like a glimpse of Hale’s balls, from the 1970 western There Was A Crooked Man:
http://bigmenoftvandfilm.tumblr.com/post/149323457572/alan-hale-jr-splitting-his-trousers-in-there-was
The Senator from Montana
Featuring Farmer and former United States Senator, Jon Tester
CHAPTER TWELVE: Mile-High Connection
The cabin lights dimmed on the commercial flight from Reagan National to Billings, the last leg home to Big Sandy. Senator Jon Tester, still riding the filthy high from his airport send-off with Jack Lucas, shifted his 6’1”, 300-pound frame in the wide seat. His graying flattop was slightly mussed, piercing blue eyes scanning the rows when they landed on a familiar round, expressive face two seats over in first class: Joel McKinnon Miller, the Brooklyn Nine-Nine actor, looking every bit the stocky Midwestern everyman at 5’11” and comfortably overweight. Same signature gray-brown flattop, warm blue eyes, thin smiling lips, fair ruddy skin dusted with light body hair peeking from his open collar. Miller’s black watch sat on his left wrist beside a gold wedding band, his broad shoulders and noticeable man-tits stretching a casual button-up shirt, sturdy hairy legs crossed under loose pants.
Tester’s thick cut 8-inch cock twitched at the memory of Lucas’s load still faintly leaking in his briefs. Hell, why not? he thought, that pragmatic farm-boy boldness surging. He leaned across the aisle with his deep, folksy Montana drawl.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re that Scully fella from the cop show, ain’t ya? Jon Tester. Pleasure to meet a fellow flattop man.”
Miller’s resonant, opera-trained Midwestern baritone rumbled with easygoing charm, warm gravelly tone carrying hints of Lutheran humility and quirky humor.
“Senator Tester! Big fan of your no-nonsense style. Joel McKinnon Miller. Grew up a small-town boy like you.”
They chatted low through the flight; Tester swapping DC stories and farm tales from the family homestead near Big Sandy, Miller sharing stories of Hollywood and raising kids with his wife Tammy back in low-key LA, complete with their beloved dog Elliot. The easy folksy rapport crackled with something hotter. By the time they landed in Billings and headed through the quiet terminal, Tester’s heavy low-hanging balls ached for round two.
“Flight was smoother than a fresh-plowed field,” Tester growled as they reached a family restroom near baggage claim, the area nearly deserted late evening. “But I got this itch that needs scratchin’, Miller. You game? Quick and dirty.”
Miller’s blue eyes widened, then crinkled with that loyal, humorous spark. His voice dropped to a resonant hum.
“Well, Senator… I’ve played a lot of parts, but never this one. Tammy’s back home, and I’m just a humble Minnesota boy. But damn if your charm ain’t got me curious.”
He glanced around, then nodded, gold band glinting as he pushed the door open.
Inside the locked stall, Tester wasted no time. His weathered left hand; scarred stump and two fingers, reached out and caressed Miller’s broad chest through the shirt, feeling the soft, ample man-tits.
“Goddamn, Miller, these are somethin’ else. Like ripe melons on a sturdy farm boy.”
He popped the buttons open one by one, exposing the light body hair and plump, rounded pecs. Tester’s full lips latched onto one fat nipple, sucking hard with wet, hungry pulls, tongue flicking the stiff bud while his right hand kneaded the other, pinching and rolling. Miller moaned, the sound rich and operatic, gravelly baritone vibrating.
“Oh hell, Senator… that mouth of yours… damn. Suck ‘em good… makes this old Lutheran feel downright sinful.”
Tester growled around the tit, “Taste like honest Midwest sweat, boy. Been wantin’ to get my hands on these since I saw you.”
He switched sides, slurping noisily, spit trailing down Miller’s soft belly as his own prominent gut pressed close. His thick 8-inch cock strained against his black pants, blunt rosy head leaking. Miller dropped to his knees on the tile, blue eyes looking up with quirky humility.
“Your turn, Senator. Let’s see what a Montana farmer packs.”
He unzipped Tester, freeing the heavy cut cock and low-hanging balls nestled in dense graying pubes. Miller’s warm mouth engulfed the wide head, plump lips stretching around the blunt girth. He sucked with surprising skill, opera breath control letting him take it deep, throat relaxing as he bobbed, resonant hums vibrating along the shaft.
“Mmmph… thick as a prize bull,” he mumbled around it, pulling off to lap at the heavy balls, sucking one then the other into his mouth, tongue bathing the coarse hair while his hand stroked the slick 8 inches in firm, twisting pulls. Tester’s scarred left hand guided Miller’s head, stump pressing into his scalp.
“That’s it, Miller… suck it like you’re singin’ for your supper. Goddamn, your mouth’s tighter than a combine belt.”
Precum coated Miller’s tongue as he jerked Tester’s shaft fast, thumb circling the rosy slit, then dove back down, gagging wetly with spit dripping onto his own man-tits.
Tester pulled him up, voice rough.
“Bend over the sink, boy. I’m gonna fuck that soft ass proper.”
Miller braced his stocky frame, dropping his pants and bending forward, exposing his soft, rounded, lightly hairy butt. Tester spat thick into his palm, slicked his fat 8-inch cock until it gleamed, then pressed the blunt rosy head against Miller’s tight pink pucker. He rubbed the wide tip in slow circles, teasing the rim until it fluttered, then pushed forward. The tight ring resisted for a heartbeat before popping open around the thick head with a wet, obscene stretch.
“Aww, fuck, Miller… that hole’s grippin’ me like a brand-new vise on a tractor axle,” Tester growled, feeding another inch, feeling the silky-hot walls clench and ripple around his shaft. Miller’s breath hitched in a resonant groan.
“Jesus Christ, Senator… you’re splittin’ me wide open. Burn’s so damn good.”
Tester sank deeper, inch by fat inch, until his dense graying pubes nestled against Miller’s soft cheeks and his heavy low-hanging balls pressed snug against the actor’s taint. The heat inside was velvet-smooth and furnace-hot, Miller’s inner muscles fluttering and squeezing rhythmically like a well-trained throat. Tester pulled back until just the blunt head remained trapped inside the stretched rim, then slammed forward in one powerful farm-boy thrust, burying himself balls-deep. The wet slap of flesh echoed in the stall as he started pounding, long, deliberate strokes that made Miller’s soft rounded ass cheeks jiggle and ripple with every impact. Each thrust dragged the wide rosy head across Miller’s prostate, forcing a deep, operatic moan from the actor’s gravelly throat.
“Goddamn, your ass is suckin’ me in like it’s hungry for seed,” Tester grunted, hips snapping harder, sweat dripping from his ruddy face onto Miller’s back.
He reached around with his scarred left hand, the rough stump and fingers wrapping around Miller’s thick 6-inch cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, callused palm smearing the steady flow of precum leaking from the plump mushroom head. Miller’s sturdy hairy legs trembled, man-tits swaying as he pushed back to meet every pounding stroke.
“Harder, Senator… fuck that hole. I can feel every thick vein rubbin’ my spot… fuck.”
Tester obliged, shifting to short, brutal jabs that kept his cockhead hammering Miller’s prostate relentlessly. The tight channel clenched and pulsed around him, milking the shaft with silky contractions, the lube of spit and precum making every slide audibly wet and filthy. Tester’s own heavy balls swung and slapped loudly against Miller’s taint, the sensation building like a thunderstorm over the Montana plains.
“Take this big Montana cock, you opera-singin’ sonofabitch. Feel it rearrangin’ your guts… stretchin’ that pretty hole wide enough to drive a pickup through.”
Miller’s resonant baritone broke into whimpers and gasps, his soft body rocking forward with every deep thrust.
“Don’t cum inside me, Senator. I ain’t ready for that kinda mess on the way home to Tammy and the kids.”
Tester’s pace grew frantic, belly slapping against Miller’s back, scarred hand still jerking the actor’s leaking cock. At the edge he yanked out with a wet pop, the stretched hole gaping open for a moment, pink and shiny, before clenching shut. He spun Miller around, stroking his own 8-inch cock furiously with his good right hand while the scarred left tugged his heavy balls.
“Open wide and stick out that chest, boy.”
Thick ropes erupted; first blasting across Miller’s round expressive face, splattering his thin smiling lips, blue eyes, and flattop, then painting his ample man-tits and soft belly in hot, white streaks that dripped down through the light body hair. Miller’s own thick cock jerked untouched, spurting onto the floor as he moaned long and low in that warm gravelly voice.
They cleaned up quick, Tester chuckling with folksy humor.
“Hell of a layover, Miller. You sing as good as you take dick.”
Miller wiped his face, gold band flashing, and grinned.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Senator. Safe travels back to the farm.”
Disclaimer: This narrative is entirely fictional, satirical, and erotic fantasy. It does not reflect any verified events, actions, or inclinations of Jon Tester or Joel McKinnon Miller. It is invented for entertainment purposes only.
The Senator from Montana
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Muck and Desire
Featuring Farmer and former United States Senator, Jon Tester
The late winter wind cut like a blade across Tester’s 1,800-acre Montana farm, the flat, snow-dusted fields stretching into the gray horizon. Jack Lucas, 5’10” and stocky, stood by his mud-caked Ford Fusion, its rear wheels stuck in the mire. His black insulated jacket hugged his athletic frame, his light brown hair tousled under the hood, and his blue eyes; sharp with mischief, gleamed despite the cold. At 28, Jack was Tester’s right-hand man, loyal to a fault, his 7-inch cock already stirring thick and heavy in his jeans as he watched the senator work.
Jon Tester, a 6’1”, 300-pound bear of a man, clambered down from his red Case tractor, his brown Carhartt jacket smeared with mud. His dark plaid shirt tucked into khaki work pants, black winter boots crunching the snow. Blue work gloves covered his hands; one scarred, missing three fingers from that childhood meat-grinder accident. His graying flattop caught snowflakes as he knelt to free the chains from Jack’s car, broad ass straining the fabric of his pants. Grunting, he lay flat on his belly in the muck, oblivious to the cold soaking through, blue eyes squinting under the chassis.
“Fuckin’ chains,” Tester muttered, his deep Montana drawl thick as the mud. He stood, shaking off the metal links, and caught Jack’s heated stare, the younger man’s jeans tented unmistakably. A dirty grin split Tester’s rugged, ruddy face. “Well, shit, Lucas. That hard-on ain’t from the cold, is it? Looks like you’re packin’ heat for more than just the tractor.”
Jack smirked, blue eyes glinting.
“Guess not, Senator.”
Tester dropped the chains with a clang and closed the gap in three strides, his bulk looming. Without a word, he sank to his knees in the snow, gloved hands yanking Jack’s jeans open. The zipper rasped, and Tester tugged them down, freeing Jack’s 7-inch cock to the frigid air. Jack shivered, but Tester’s hot mouth engulfed him in one greedy gulp, the wet heat swallowing his shaft to the root. Tester’s scarred left hand and good right grabbed Jack’s ass cheeks, squeezing the firm flesh as his head bobbed, nose pressing into the cold, musky light brown pubes with every deep swallow. Wet, sloppy slurps filled the snowy silence, spit dripping down Jack’s balls and freezing on his thighs.
“Fuckin’ Christ!” Jack gasped, stumbling back against the car’s hood, hands gripping the icy metal.
Tester’s tongue dragged slow and heavy along the underside, swirling around the head before plunging deep again, throat constricting with practiced hunger. The senator sucked like a man starved after a long harvest, cheeks hollowing, full lips stretched tight, blue eyes locked upward with that folksy, filthy charm.
“Shit, Senator… gonna blow!” Jack warned, knees buckling, hips twitching.
Tester growled around the cock, the vibration humming through Jack’s shaft, and shoved his head down harder, taking him to the hilt. Jack’s orgasm hit like a stampede, cock pulsing as he unloaded thick ropes straight down Tester’s throat. The senator swallowed every spurt, lips locked tight, milking him dry until the spasms faded. Tester pulled off with a wet pop, a thick strand of spit and cum dangling from his lips. He wiped his mouth with a gloved hand, then grabbed Jack’s shoulders and gently pushed him down.
“Your turn, boy. Get that mouth on me.”
Jack dropped to his knees in the snow, jeans soaked, and Tester unzipped his khakis, freeing his thick 8-inch cut cock. It sprang out heavy and veined, blunt rosy head already slick with precum, heavy low-hanging balls nestled in dense graying pubic hair. Jack gripped the girth, marveling, then wrapped his lips around the wide head, sucking the salty bead before taking him deeper. Tester groaned, scarred hand tangling in Jack’s tousled hair.
“Fuck yeah, Lucas… suck that Montana beef like you mean it.”
Jack’s throat stretched around the thickness, tongue swirling over pulsing veins as Tester fucked his mouth with slow, deliberate pumps. Wet slurps mixed with the senator’s grunts, heavy balls brushing Jack’s chin.
“Goddamn, boy, you’re suckin’ me like a calf on a tit,” Tester growled, hips snapping faster until Jack gagged, spit spilling down his chin.
Just as Jack braced for a flood, Tester pulled out, glistening cock throbbing.
“Get up, Lucas. Bend over the hood… I’m gonna fuck that tight ass.”
Jack scrambled up, yanking his jeans and briefs to his ankles, bare ass exposed to the biting wind. He spat into his hand, slicking his hole with quick strokes, then bent over the cold metal hood, arching his back. Tester stepped up, spitting a thick gob onto his fat cock and smearing it over the rosy head before pressing the blunt tip against Jack’s puckered ring. He rubbed the wide head in slow, teasing circles, watching the tight muscle flutter, then pushed forward.
The blunt rosy head popped through the resistant ring with a wet squelch, stretching Jack’s hole wide open in one sudden, burning invasion. Jack cried out as inch after thick inch sank in, the veined shaft forcing his silky inner walls apart, the heat inside gripping like a furnace. Tester groaned deep in his chest.
“Goddamn, Lucas… your ass is so fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ me like a brand-new gasket.”
He bottomed out, heavy low-hanging balls pressed flush against Jack’s taint, dense graying pubes grinding against the younger man’s cheeks. Tester pulled back slowly, the thick shaft dragging along sensitive walls until only the wide head remained trapped inside the puffy rim, then slammed back in balls-deep with a loud, wet thwack. He set a punishing rhythm, long, powerful farm-rough strokes that made Jack’s hole clench and flutter around every ridge and vein. The filthy, rhythmic squelching grew louder with each thrust as spit and precum frothed into a creamy ring around the stretched entrance, the pucker turning shiny and swollen from the relentless pounding.
“Fuck, Senator… you’re huge!” Jack gasped, body jolting against the hood, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the searing fullness inside him.
“Huge and hard for you, boy,” Tester snarled, gripping Jack’s hips as he hammered deeper.
Each brutal plunge made the blunt head batter Jack’s prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through him. Tester leaned back to watch his thick cock disappear completely into the gripping hole, then reappear glistening and veined, the stretched ring dragging obscenely along the shaft.
“Listen to that sloppy hole, Lucas… suckin’ and slurpin’ like it don’t want me to leave. Your ass is milkin’ me so good, clenchin’ around every inch. Gonna ruin this pretty Montana fuck-hole.”
He angled his hips, delivering short, vicious jabs that kept the rosy head hammering Jack’s prostate without mercy. Sweat dripped from Tester’s ruddy face onto Jack’s back despite the freezing wind. Jack’s own cock, hard again, slapped the bumper with every thrust, smearing precum across the metal.
“Fuck me harder, Jon!” he begged, voice raw.
Tester slapped Jack’s ass with his scarred hand, leaving a red mark.
“Who’s my fuckin’ boy, huh?” He railed even faster, the wet schlick-schlick-schlick echoing across the snowy fields as his heavy balls slapped loudly against Jack’s taint.
The tight channel pulsed and squeezed around him, the silky walls fluttering in waves that milked his cock from root to tip.
“Me… fuck, I’m yours!” Jack moaned, balls tightening.
His second orgasm hit hard, cock spurting across the bumper as his ass spasmed violently around Tester’s shaft, strong, rhythmic contractions that clamped down like a vice, rippling and squeezing in perfect time with every deep thrust. The intense milking pushed Tester over the edge.
“Shit, I’m cummin’!” he roared.
His thick cock stiffened deep inside, pulsing as hot cum flooded Jack’s guts, spurt after heavy spurt coating his insides, filling him until excess leaked out around the buried shaft in creamy white rivulets. Tester kept grinding slow and deep, wringing out every drop while his broad chest heaved against Jack’s back. He kissed the younger man’s neck, breath hot and ragged.
“Goddamn, Lucas… you’re gonna kill me one day.”
Jack, trembling and spent, managed a shaky grin.
“Worth it, Senator.”
Disclaimer: This narrative is entirely fictional, satirical, and erotic fantasy. It does not reflect any verified events, actions, or inclinations of Jon Tester or any person named Jack Lucas. It is invented for entertainment purposes only.